


Flowers

by ParmeJeanneCheese



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley has a Garden, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParmeJeanneCheese/pseuds/ParmeJeanneCheese
Summary: Prompt: Crowley talks to Aziraphale about gardeningI hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35
Collections: Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange





	Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petalprose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/gifts).



It starts, as it will end, in a garden, Crowley muses. But their garden is not like Eden. There is an apple tree, yes, but it is not surrounded by dense foliage. Instead, it is at the end of a small cobblestone path that weaves between four planter beds. Instead of an unscalable wall made of bricks, there is a wooden fence low enough to wave to the neighborhood kids as they pass by on their bikes. The dirt is darkened by rain not of a holy nature but of the clouds off the sea. The weeds are pruned by hand (as well a small dose of demonic influence). The plants sprout proudly, for even though they have never been told, they know that they are loved.

He shuts off the hose and recoils it, willing the familiar motion to calm his nerves for what he is about to do. It helps only a little, so he goes to his preferred destressing method.

“Alright, you plants, listen closely: Today’s the day. I know I’ve been saying that for 6,000 years, but I actually mean it this time, so don’t mess it up. I won’t tolerate any last minute spots or wilted leaves or--Antichrist forbid--droopy petals. My angel deserves the best and nothing less. You lot are the best of the best, but don’t let that go to your head! Don’t forget who waters you.”

The plants have known Crowely since they were seeds and are not put off by his threats, but they know better than to pretend like Crowley wasn’t the scary demon he thinks he is. They give a convincing shiver. Their reaction gives Crowley the strength he needs. He stands up, dusts the dirt off his trousers, and walks back to the cottage’s door.

“Aziraphale?” he calls into the kitchen. “When you’ve got a minute, could you come out here?”

“Coming, love.” Aziraphale closes the oven door and sets a timer for his latest baking experiment. He descends the steps of their front porch. “What is it, dear?”

“I wanted to show you my plants.” Crowley says, face burns with embarrassment as he hears how stupid he sounds.

“Oh! I’ve always wanted you to give me a tour of the garden.” Aziraphale smiles and slips his hand into Crowley’s.

No turning back now, he thinks. “We’re going to make a bouquet of the flowers I’ve been growing.”

“That sounds lovely. Where do we begin?”

Crowley leads him over to the first planter bed where mauve petals open like the wings of a butterfly.

“Irises?” Aziraphale guesses.

“Correct! These symbolize friendship, particularly those that are deep and long lasting.” He squeezes the angel’s hand. “Go on, pick some.”

“I feel awful about plucking them out of the ground!”

Crowley rolls his eyes fondly. “They’ll be fine, I promise. Just a little demonic miracle of my own.”

Aziraphale gives him the “you saved my books” look, and it absolutely melts his heart. He leans over the planter bed and picks four smaller irises. “Alright. Next?”

The next bed has small white flowers with yellow bells that hang down from the center. Immediately, Aziraphale picks up two.

“I recognize these.”

“Jonquil. They mean ‘affections returned.’”

“Ah, yes. I recall seeing these whilst in Rome.” Aziraphale pecks him on the cheek. “Our first date.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

“Agree to disagree. C’mon.” Crowley walks him to the next set of flowers. These ones are also white, but they are larger, with white petals that spiral in. “Gardenia. They represent secret love.”

He picks just a solitary blossom.

“Just the one?”

“I haven’t had any other secret lovers!” Aziraphale exclaims. “It’s always been just you.”

Any thoughts of teasing him evaporated. “Same’s true for me, you know. You’re the only one for me, angel. Always have been, always will be.”

“You know, Crowley, I’ve always said that deep down you really are quite--”

“Don’t say it!”

“--romantic.” Aziraphale finishes and drags him in for a kiss. They linger for a while until Crowley pulls away. He’s dazed and more than a little flushed, but he can’t afford to get distracted now.

“Come on, angel. We’ve got one more planter bed left.”

The final one is not full of red roses, but small, five-petal flowers. They are not in organized rows like the others and instead grow in wild clumps. Some were a muted sapphire, and others were a soft blush. Both had little yellow stars at their center.

“These are lovely! What are they?”

“Forget-me-nots. I could’ve gone with roses, or tulips, or chrysanthemums, but those tend to have a connotation with passionate love.”

A blonde eyebrow raises. “Are we not passionate?”

“Yes! We are. We absolutely are. It’s just that passionate love reminds me of a candle that will burn itself out. Forget-me-nots, on the other hand, celebrate the longevity of relationships.” He pauses, uncertain. “I can turn them into roses, if you’d prefer.”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale says. He picks several of both colors and adds them to the rest of the flowers he’s been holding. “That’s the last planter box. I suppose we’re finished?”

“Not quite. The last one’s not from the garden, not properly, but it’s growing here nevertheless,” Crowley gestures to the side of their house where ivy is climbing up the brick. “Bit of a weed, but you’ve got to admire it’s determination.” He coaxes a vine to come off the wall and uses it to tie the stems of the flowers together into a bouquet.

“What does this one symbolize, Crowely?”

“Wedded bliss.” He removes his sunglasses and kneels down on the dirt. “Angel. I know a bouquet isn’t exactly traditional, but I hope you’ll accept it in place of a ring.”

“Oh, my dear boy.” His voice sounds tight; his eyes are sparkling.

Crowley swallows down the lump in his throat. “Aziraphale, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

Their garden is not like Eden, the same way their love is neither angelic nor demonic. It has taken time and dedication to grow, pushing its way up through the dirt to sprout and soaking in the rain to flower. It is vulnerable in a painfully human way.

The apple tree blooms, its branches heavy with the fruits of love.


End file.
